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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26772703">October</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallanodele/pseuds/Gallanodele'>Gallanodele</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>World of Warcraft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:02:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,218</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26772703</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallanodele/pseuds/Gallanodele</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Short little works, one per day; in the univers of Azeroth, though you can't always tell.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Orignal female character/original male character, The Alliance/The Horde (Warcraft)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Fish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Everything was calmer when he was here. A little up ahead, he knew that the farmers came and left Gina’s market, but the road was apart enough for him to almost not hear their conversations. The falcons were shadows in the sky, to far away to bother him.<br/>Here, his thoughts calmed down, until they became as indolent as the river at his feet. The only movements were of the water; of the animals who came out the enjoy the warmth of the sun; of his fishing rode when he caught a new prize to bring back home, when the sun will begin his way down.</p><p>Sometimes, his leg twitched, used to long hours of activity. Running, training, fighting; here, the only effort was going to the river and back, and helping in the garden – in the farm, he could hear the scolding: they’d worked hard for it, and he shouldn’t depreciate their little oasis of peace.<br/>Sometimes, his arms brought back his prize too hard, too high; his rode and his catches were not as heavy as his weapon, not as brutal as a fight, not as painful as a body which you have to carry back. Here, the only heavy thing to carry was his full basket to bring back home, and the vegetables to bring to the market when they wanted to go – less and less, for the past few days. Too much noise.<br/>Sometimes, his senses bolted for a moment: his eyes looking for the enemy, his ears listening to the screaming of a battle, his noise perceiving the so familiar smell of smoke and blood; of death. Here, you found only farmers and their cattle; theirs sounds cutting off the silence of the growing grass and of the clouds slithering in the sky. Smells were of the farms : ripe fruits, heady flowers, pure water mixed with manure; life.</p><p>At the back of their house, their weapons and his armor were catching dust, put down when they arrived and not moved since. At the back of their mind, the foolish hope that they won’t have to pick them up again, forgotten mementos, the fishing rode and the spade the only tools their hands would know from now on.<br/>At the back of their house, in a neglect box, their emblems were loosing colors in the darkness. Neither the bloody red nor the oppressive blue had found a place. Here, blue was pure, in the water so full of this healing power this paradise carried; here, the red war sweet, in the sunset they savored, side by side without insignia to separate them. Here, the main colors were the green of the plants and the brown of the earth. At the back of their mind, the dream to never wear them again, so nothing could force them to fight each other again.</p><p>Everything was calmer when he was here. His thoughts didn’t writhe, his pains and worries pushed away, where they could not bother him, for a moment. Was left only the clear blue of the sky, the perfumes of the flowers, the murmurs of the river; only their smiles when he brought back a basket full of fish they would share during their evening meal, dressed with the carrots and the onions their little garden grew while he was fishing.<br/>No wars, no crazy warchiefs and sad kings; no nightmarish creatures, no last chances and desperate fights. Only their little house near their little farm.</p><p>Only this moment of eternity, in the fish he was catching.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Wisp</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Set after the defeat of Deathwing, the hero of the Horde and the hero of the Alliance share a moment.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“For the dawning of the age of mortals… has begun.”<br/>The wind still whispered the Dragon Queen’s words, on the cliff overlooking Deathwing’s Folly, and they still made her shiver.<br/>Thrall – Go’el, she had to name him as he wanted, not as his once jailers did – and his partner were gone, probably to celebrate the Cataclysm’s end, and the future addition to their little family. The Aspects had quickly followed them, Kalecgos nodding at her without daring coming too close. He knew only too well she could not forget his Dragonflight’s past actions and that her scars were still fresh.<br/>With them gone, they were alone. She could have easily left – she mastered teleportation now. He could have easily left, she knew his griffon was never to far, always within range of his whistling. However, neither moved, eyes glued on the calm ocean.<br/>Nothing betrayed the fury of the waters, less than one hour ago, or the fact that they were the Earth-Warder’s tomb.<br/>Nothing, except their wounds, and the burn marks on the radiant armor of the paladin, and her magical exhaustion. The blood on his sword, and the shiny ice where her spells hit.</p><p>“What now?”<br/>She didn’t meant to say anything. Still eyeing the grave of Neltarion – she would remember him by that name, to never forget the one who once wanted to defend Azeroth, but ultimately fell – she could feel her every muscle hurting with every breath. She guessed the human at her side had it worse, with his heavy armor.<br/>It was a beautiful armor, and useful according to the numerous traces of failed attacks on it. She preferred him without.<br/>If the paladin had looked at her, he would gave seen her blushing. Thankfully he didn’t moved, and her honor was safe.<br/>“No idea. Probably a party?”<br/>He sounded as tired as she – and as lost. They always sounded like that after a great battle, she found out, be it against Arthas or Illidan or Nefarian. She dared anyone to blame them.<br/>A wisp of hair fell in front of her eyes, tickling her nose. It was very annoying, and she would have pushed it back behind her ear if she hadn’t known that this particular wisp always fell from her braid after a big fight. And unless she redid her braid, she could dot nothing against it, it would fall back again in less than a minute if she tried, and she was far too tired to begin this particular battle.<br/>It did not stop her from sighing heavily, aggravated.</p><p>Her sigh seemed to break their paralysis and the paladin looked at her with a smirk. “You really should do something about this wisp. One day, it will fall at the beginning of the fight and not at the end.”<br/>She raised an eyebrow. “We just killed an Aspect and save Azeroth… again… And you care about my hair?”<br/>He shrugged and winced – yeah, between the aches and the wounds and the armor she winced for him too – before coming closer. He raised a hand towards her face. She held her breath.<br/>“I’m caring about every aspect of you.”<br/>His whisper made her shiver. His smug face made her hit him. She winced – between the aches and the wounds and the armor it had been a spectacular bad idea – making him snigger.<br/>“Your puns are so bad.<br/>– And yet, you are still blushing, my Lady.”<br/>He saw her blushing after looking.</p><p>With a haughty chin up, she teleported right then, drawing on her last reserves, appearing in Silver Moon, leaving him alone on that cliff.<br/>She reported immediately to Lor’Themar, and her hair were perfectly braided, her wisp obedient in the hairstyle.<br/>Her skin burning up where he had touched her, and still furiously blushing.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Bulky</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>While moving against the Legion, a important person reflects on the heroes assisting him.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The way to the Tomb was treacherous, even with his wings helping him move more easily than his… allies. Despite it all, their little group was advancing quickly, in large part thanks to the Blood Elf.</p><p>He didn’t trust her one bit. Not only her race had a long history of betrayals of all kind, but her loyalty to the Horde made her truly unpleasant. Once we added her part in his defeat in his own realm, well, he felt entitled to never turn his back to her.<br/>However, he had to admit that she did impressed him. Even back then: this young girl, a child, who had shown no fear in front of him in all his glory, his weapons bloodied and his Fel magic surrounding them. She still showed no fear today, neither in front of him – and he was furious after their last encounter – nor in front of the Legion, and her own magic had gained in strength and mastering. He was almost jealous of her raw power, when he had to sacrifice so much to gain his own. And, while he moved on alongside her, he couldn’t help but approved how she used the Arcanes to allow their group to advance beyond traps and cliffs with her shield never faltering.<br/>A new chasm on their path, the demons on the other side ready to destroy any attempt at creating a bridge, and his Illidaris weren’t many enough to move alone. Without pausing, she created a vast disk of ice under their feet and willed it to fly toward the other side. He took off to kill all the idiotic insects who tried to stop them, and admired this incredible act of power. It was impressive, and more impressive was the fact that, once on the other side, she only sighed before moving on again.</p><p>“Tired already?”<br/>Yeah, he was impressed, and also envious.<br/>Because the one who just teased her had done so without malice, and his amused inquiry hid a real worry. The paladin had always protected his partner, even before they admitted their feelings.<br/>He was less impressed by him than by her. When he didn’t trust the Elf because he always expected her to stab him in the back, he didn’t trust the Human because he always expected his stupidity to allow a demon to stab him in the back. His own loyalty to a little boy on the throne of his Alliance was as gullible as his faith in his Light: neither would protect him against the Legion.<br/>However, once more he had to admit that he was good with his blade, and his dedication to the protection of his allies was incredibly useful. His link with the Elf was obvious, in the numerous attacks he took for her, and the numerous attacks she protected him from. Between them, in spite of all their divergent loyalties, lied a true trust, and he, Illidan, was jealous of them.<br/>Because this love was not blind. They fought each other to many time for that, and it made their love real, less lucky – less like his dearest twin and…</p><p>He grinded his teeth and destroyed a demon running to him more savagely than necessary. The Prophet cast him a glance, the soldiers took a step back, and Maïev snarled. He was about to snap at her when the couple drew his attention.<br/>“It is tiring to carry all this weight.<br/>– Did you just call me fat?”<br/>The offended reaction of the Paladin would have made him roll his eyes if he still had eyes. In the middle of a battle against the Legion, this futile conversation would distract them and kill them.<br/>He and Khadgar both could not, however, stop a snicker when the Mage threw a deadpan look at her companion.<br/>“I’m sure the armor is just… bulky.”<br/>The dripping sarcasm in her voice forced a smile even out of the Prophet, who hid it behind a rally to their troops to keep moving.<br/>The couple kept throwing barbs at each other between slaughtered demons, and Illidan had to shigh.<br/>To think that the future of Azeroth was in their hands.<br/>To think that it wasn’t even the first time they had to save her.<br/>To think that he had lost against those two.<br/>To think that they were powerful enough for him to not turn his back on them.<br/>And they still squabbled about whether or not the Paladin’s armor was bulky or if he was simply fat.</p><p>Children.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Radio</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>UA : Lor'Themar, CEO of Silver Moon, thought it would be a boring day of paperwork. That was before Rommath barged in and turn his radio on...</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was already late in the morning, and Lor’Themar couldn’t help a heavy sigh while looking at a new demand form sent by the research department. Rommath sent one every week, and never failed to throw him a little barb when they lunched together if he dared refusing it.<br/>He had been CEO of the company for the past eight years now, even if he managed the position since almost two decades – since Kael’Thas left, after his father’s death, moving in another country under the pretense to learn how to head a firm as important as Silver Moon.<br/>He managed that, and he managed the responsibility of raising Keal’Thas daughter too, when he abandoned her with the company. Lor’Themar had agreed to take her in in memory of his old friend, the former CEO and the grand-father of the kid, Anestarian.<br/>He took another paper from the never ending pile – it was midday and he still had a lot to do before lunch – and smiled while thinking of his adoptive daughter. She had refused to follow as a Sunstrider and take direction of the firm, diving instead in research alongside Rommath, for his utter despair. Because the kid – who would always be a kid in their eyes – was not a cautious researcher. She was the opposite actually, and Lor’Themar had the lost total amount of time of an aggravated Rommath had burst in his office, mad and scared because Saëriel had, once again, managed to destroy some parts of the lab – more often than not, the whole lab.<br/>He would never admit it, but he still laughed at the memory of an eyebrow-less Rom’.<br/>But even his grumpy friend had to admit that she was a true genius, who made big discoveries in the domain of new energies. She understood intuitively their inner work, and never stopped looking. Lor’Themar was proud, in spite of his white hair – she kept giving him more every day.</p><p>As it often happens, his trail of thoughts brought him to the new whim of his daughter, and Lor’Themar refused perhaps too strongly a demand. She was seeing someone, and for the life of his, he could not bring himself to approve. He was careless, too headstrong, and the CEO was sure he would bring his daughter a lot of problems, as she was exactly the same. On their own, they had stupid ideas, together they acted on their stupid ideas. All he could do was hoping it would not be too bad…<br/>He took a sip of his cold coffee: he was going to swallow, make a face, call his assistant to have another. It was what he would have done if, as though he was summoned, Rommath came in – barged in – and made him choke and cough his sip. His friend was agitated, and didn’t even stop blaberring to help him mop up the coffee on his papers.<br/>“Did you hear what those two idiots did! I can’t believe it! She deserves – oh, stop pretending to choke Lor’ - she deserves the highest punishment, the little hooligan!”<br/>Lor’Themar succeeded in taking a deep breath, and looked sadly at his pipe of paperwork – with a great deal of pleasure in fact – soaked in spilled coffee.<br/>“What are you talking about this time? Sari has a day off, I hardly see what you could reproach her.”<br/>Rommath looked at him for a moment before striding over the office to turn on the radio Lor’Themar used sometimes, to break off the monotony of the paperwork.<br/>“… the explosion, thankfully, made no victims. However the material damages are heavy, and numerous trees of the park will have to be cut down according to the experts. The culprits, two young persons, had been arrested : Saëriel Sunstrider and Alec Menethil were performing illegal and extremely volatile experiments, using components from Silver Moon’s labs. As a reminder, this company...”<br/>Lor’Themar didn’t heard what followed, to busy hitting repeatedly his head against the wood of his desk.<br/>Two fucking risk-chasers, as bad as the other.<br/>And one of them had to be his, dammit. Why did it always fell to him?</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Blade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>To defeat the Legion, the two champions need new weapons, stronger weapons. Weapons they both know all too well.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His blade. Even after months of use, he was still surprised to see it at his side. As if he was just borrowing it, as if he wasn’t its rightful owner, as if he wasn’t worthy.<br/>“Become Ashbringer,” had whispered Tirion in his last moment, his last breath. But how could he become such a legend? How could he take up such a mantle, follow his illustrious predecessors? The soldiers of Argussian Reach called him a hero, said he was a champion of the Light, they admired him. But, what was he, next to the Mograine, next to Tirion?<br/>He was a child, a little boy who dreamt of becoming a paladin. He was the little brother of the fallen prince, the prince without a kingdom, the second best in everything.<br/>He definitely didn’t felt worthy of bearing Ashbringer.<br/>And yet, who else? Tirion was dead, Arthas had fallen, the last Mograine was a Death Knight. All the others, all those paladins so dedicated to the Light, whose deeds were legends in taverns and in children tales, all named him Highlord, asked him his decisions, followed him as their leader. As if he had earned this title! He was only the one who survived when the heroes fell on the battlefield. His blood had proven they weren’t trustworthy, and the deathes that littered his past proved he couldn’t save anyone.<br/>He definitely didn’t felt worthy of bearing Ashbringer.<br/>And yet, he was bearing it, and demons fled when his Light shined on the legendary blade, and he used it well on the battlefields. As if he was a hero, a leader, a Highlord. The rightful successor of Tirion.<br/>He definitely didn’t felt worthy of bearing Ashbringer. And yet, in the eyes of their men, he had became Ashbringer.<br/>Maybe someday, he would stop thinking he was but a mere pretender.<br/>Maybe someday, he would feel as if he deserved his blade.</p><p>Her blade. She knew it by heart, this weapon used by the members of her family since the days of the first of them. She always saw it at the side of her grandfather, always admired it when she could watch his training, dreamt of bearing it herself someday.<br/>Then came the dark days, the fall in front of Arthas, and her father’s betrayal. Lost has been Felo’Melorn, as has been her father, and back then she had tried to forget the family blade. Just like she wanted to forget this family.<br/>Cursed blood, cursed blade. Her grandfather’s defeat, the break of the blade. Her father’s betrayal, the disappearance of the blade. She had been happy, deep down inside, to never inherit it: cursed was the sword, mirror of the curse of her family, and she wanted nothing more than to pretend she was Lor’Themar true daughter – Lor’ who was loyal, Lor’ who would never betray – instead of his pupil.<br/>But now, found was the sword, and yet again was their curse clear, in the blood shed to gain it – found was the family, blood was shed, and another Sunstrider fell. Yet again her own blood on her hands, a blood that had fallen way before she dispatched it with her spells. Yet again, her blood showed their curse, their corruption.<br/>But she had to bear it, because its flames and its power made the demons run away, and her Arcanes destroyed the Fel corruption – for lack of destroying the family corruption. She had the feeling that everyone could see the curse of her blood when they saw Felo’Melorn at her hip, and she had the feeling that she was cursed when she saw Felo’Melorn at her hip.<br/>She hated this blade with as much fervor as she hated her father for his betrayal – this father she had killed herself, blood of her hands, she was as corrupted as him.<br/>She hated this blade with as much fervor as she hated her grandfather for his failures – this grandfather she watched leave to his death while she stayed safe and sound, she had failed to save her people, she was as useless as him.<br/>She hated this blade with as much fervor as she hated her grand-aunt for her desertion – she had abandoned her first, rejecting everything with the name Sunstrider, rejecting this crown her grand-aunt hadn’t been allowed to even touch, she was as much a deserter as her.<br/>But she had to bear it, because she was Archmage Saëriel, and her blade burned the demons, and the soldiers followed her spells with roars and won battles.<br/>But she had to bear this sword, and maybe someday, burn the corruption in the blade and in her blood. Because she was a Sunstrider, and Felo’Melorn was the family blade.<br/>Maybe someday, she would stop hating her blade.<br/>Maybe someday, she would stop hating her blood.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Rodent</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>He is not scared; but truly, something so fast is unnatural and deserves death !</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Alec Menethil!”<br/>Around him, the rubble of the dormitory mocked him. There were bits of wood everywhere, walls were torn apart, and the floors were chipped. A tornado wouldn’t have destroyed it more, and despite it all, he didn’t managed to kill it.<br/>“Killer of the Betrayer!”<br/>He used every power the Light offered him, it still ran. His Judgments only added to the surrounding destruction, and Templar’s Verdict was too slow to touch it.<br/>“The Kingslayer, in front of whom the lich-king fell!”<br/>Even his prowess with a sword, even his loyal Burn, was not enough. And it kept slipping through, dodging every attacks, he was becoming frenzied at every failure. A being that agile was not natural, he knew it!<br/>“Destroyer of the Destroyer! Savior of Azeroth against the Cataclysm!”<br/>The fight dragged on, this battle he had to face alone because no one was coming to his aid. And while he struggled without managing to destroy the enemy, around him the chaos kept climbing up. He had to succeed soon, otherwise nothing would remain.<br/>“The one of freed Orgrimmar! The one of brought peace to Pandaria!”<br/>Another attack, another evasion of the enemy. The coward kept running, and he was sure it was laughing at him, stopping to catch, under a broken table, the remains of a sandwich left there by a fleeing soldier. He had to take a break, out of breath.<br/>“And yet, there he is… vanquished, losing, lost… By his most terrible foe...”</p><p>Finally Alec had enough, and glared toward she who commented his fight with such sarcasm. A the doorway, without any intentions to come help him, Saëriel smirked at him. She leant on the frame, and snickered when he had to breath deeply.<br/>When he raised Burn, she thought he would attack his enemy once more. But he was done fighting alone, under the mockery of the one who should have helped him, and taking her by surprise, he threw himself at her. She barely had the time to jump backward to dodge the flat of his sword, and fled laughing. He immediately run after her, cursing like a sailor.<br/>They bursted through the door in the middle of the joint camp, and all looked at the red Paladin chasing after the merry Mage.<br/>“Should we worry?” asked a Frostwolf Orcs, ill-at-ease.<br/>The Dreanei at his side shrugged and threw a glance at his Exarch, who was still talking with the Matriarch of the Sin’Dorei Blood Knight on the cliff overlooking Shattrath.<br/>“They don’t seem worried...”<br/>“Because they have no reasons to.”<br/>The green orc, Thrall, came near them. He too was looking at the two hero running across the camp, but he was smiling.<br/>“But… why are they fighting each other? And we heard sounds of battles, in one of the barracks...”<br/>The shaman laughed, perfectly calm.<br/>“No worries to have either. It was only the Paladin desperately trying to kill something. His successive failures did a number on the dormitory, but nothing too damning, and his mate simply laughed at him.”<br/>“What was he trying to kill? Demons in our camp?”<br/>The soldiers were not as calm as him, quite scared to face something powerful enough to teleport in the heart of their offensive and defeat the Alliance Paladin, whose skills were something of the legends.<br/>But the Orc shook his head, silently laughing.<br/>“A rodent. A simple rodent.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Fancy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Her dresses had evolved throughout the years they spent in battles.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Her dresses had evolved throughout the years they spent in battles.</p><p>First time they met, she was barely an adult, little girl of sixteen years lost in the middle of the battlefield. Her colors, gold and red, melted in the scenery of the Hellfire Peninsula. The only touch of different color was the green of the emeralds set on the golden trims of her dress, and the stone in her tiara. Her nobility was more than visible in the luxury of her clothes, bot sophisticated and practical. Her hair were braided, and her furious green eyes were paired with the emeralds of the dress. Sin’Dorei always were careful about their appearance, even today, and the Mage in front of him, Ice on her fingertips, was no different. She was a noble of Silvermoon, her clothes screamed.</p><p>When they faced together Arthas, she was wearing a much simpler dress. If her colors remained gold and red, gone the gussied up trims, the precious stones, gone the tiara on her now naked brow. Her dress didn’t had any decorations, the fabric rough, and the golden metal on her shoulder and her forearms were golden only in color, without any designs. He almost swore she had tried to rip off and remove every bit of what made her noble, and would’ve succeeded if she had managed to destroy the refinement of her bearing and her movements. She looked like a noble disguised in lower citizen, and the fury in her golden eyes were tinted with despair.</p><p>When they celebrated Deathwing’s death – she persisted to call him Neltharion, he refused to remember this name – she was wearing the same dress, but her armor pieces were more refined, with carvings of phoenix with spread out wings. She was also bearing a new diadem, though simpler than the one of her childhood, a mere intertwined pieces of gold without any gems. She blushed when she saw him looking at her, played with her untied hair – it suited her, and he wanted to caress the white silk of her locks – and mumbled that Lor’Themar had forced her. She looked like a Mage. Her golden eyes were less angry.</p><p>Every time they fought Garrosh together, she had the same kind of dresses made for battles, her armor pieces now enlivened with discreet emeralds, the fabric of the cloth more refined than the linen and the wool of Northrend. Her diadem was the same however, bore only to forbid her wisps to fall off during combat, and despite her legitimacy, she adamantly refused any title other than Mage. During all those years she had kept a simple longsword, enchanted to remain strong and sharp in Quel’Thalas. However now, she had stopped hiding the golden guard with a flaming phoenix of emeralds eyes; she had concealed it under a white cloth since the Sunwell. She had the charisma of he hero, and the calm golden eyes of a veteran.</p><p>When the Legion was forced to retreat to Argus and they followed, she was bearing Felo’Melorn, which added to the grace of her dresses. The thin blade, darker at the point, enhanced the quiet beauty of her dark red battledress; now decorated with the symbol of Silvermoon on her back and golden trims. Her diadem was still the same, but its simplicity gave the final touch to her beauty. But he could see how ill-at-ease she felt with this blade. She looked like a princess, whose blue eyes saw the world with sadness.</p><p>When, finally, the war stopped, when finally N’Zoth was dead and Azeroth saved, she was wearing the same dress, and still Frelo’Melorn was at her side. But now, she bore it with pride, and her bearing went hand in hand with the tiara – the crown, almost – on her forehead, golden intertwined lines of metal with emeralds and diamonds set in. When she approached him, smile on her lips, her clothing more refined than ever, yet lacking the ostentation of her childhood, she never had seemed more perfect to him. She looked like his Queen, and her blue eyes shone once more with hope.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Teeth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>During the first hours of the integration of Quel’Thalas in the Horde, she judged their new allies on their faces. Especially, on their teeth.<br/>She wasn’t exactly proud of it today.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>During the first hours of the integration of Quel’Thalas in the Horde, she judged their new allies on their faces. Especially, on their teeth.<br/>She wasn’t exactly proud of it today.</p><p>When they arrived in Orgrimmar, an Orc had welcomed them. She wasn’t surprised by the differences their two races, Azeroth had always been diversified. But his face made her jerk, she hoped not to noticeably: his low jawbone, quiet prominent, two long and pointed teeth which went up and forbade his mouth to fully close, showing two littler teeth, but as sharp. Another pair of teeth on the upper jaw was smaller, but sharp too, and she had easily imagined the Orc tearing of shreds of flesh from a prey. Like an animal.<br/>Nowadays, Go’el was one of her friend, someone she respected immensely even if he annoyed her from times to times. She never compared him to an animal again.<br/>But she was ashamed of thinking it.</p><p>Beside their new warlord, a massive Troll, covered in warpaint of the Darkspears, his weapons on his back making him grander. She had already encountered members of his race: her grand-father had fought them often, these old enemies of Quel’Thalas. But it was the first time she met one who wasn’t hostile, and the first time she could take a good look at the long tusks adorning their faces. The Darkspears leader decorated his with yellow bracelets, and she could see that lot of other Trolls did the same. She had shivered, a bit scared while remembering the stories her grand-father told her about the blood the Troll used to decorate their husks, when they used it to impale the Elf warriors. She could see her own blood dripping from Vol’Jin’s husks.<br/>Today, he was still, despite death, a fierce defenser of the Horde, one of its best ally, and an honorable warlord. She would have followed him to the depth of Ny’alotha. Without any shiver, faced with their ornate husks.<br/>But she was ashamed of her fear.</p><p>Higher than the others, she remembered the high chef Cairne looking at her beside Lor’Themar. She remembered her surprise at his size, but she hadn’t been interested in him, his face, his snout had she thought back then, not as impressive as his companions appearances. Focused on her own people, she had dismissed him as yet another member of that Horde the Sin’Dorei had to join, convinced the Tauren was as intelligent as the animals they shared some similarities with. She had judged them ignorant, according to their faces, quiet and calm compared to the others in the room.<br/>Now their capital was one of the few places she truly felt safe, in spite of the attacks they suffered, thanks to the strength and the wisdom of Baine, inherited from his father. He was one of her closest friend, and their endless talks about politics, magic and Azeroth some of her most cherished memories.<br/>But she was ashamed of her disdain.</p><p>As stern and bitter as always, the Banshee Queen had welcomed them with a bow of the head. The Forsaken remained one the closest allies of the Sin’Dorei, neither forgetting that a good chunk of the undead armies came from the death of Quel’Thalas. Sylvanas herself still seemed attached to this homeland she had died for. But when Saëriel saw Forsaken, a violent shudder always took her, and not only because of the memories of Silvermoon’s fall. The undead were still rotting, and she always had to curb her disgust when she saw their skins falling from their faces, showing jawbones and black teeth still clutching. Nathanos, though she had no idea how, had an almost human look now, but she would never forget the scream she had almost let escape when she saw him, face almost skinless, his teeth in a rictus he couldn’t control but was here, beside his Dark Lady.<br/>Nowadays, she never hesitated to help any Forsaken on her road, saddened by their fate and ready to fight for their right to exist, in spite of their state none or almost didn’t ask for. She was well used to their looks, and ignored it to focused on their alliance, impressed with Lillian Voss’ strength, and never judging Zellig’s choice.<br/>But she was ashamed of her disgust.</p><p>Today, her people was a long standing member of the Horde, and she judged to newcomers as the old allies, on their actions, their convictions, their honor, as a worthy member of the Horde.<br/>But she was ashamed of her first thoughts when joining the Horde.</p>
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<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Throw</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>As the years went by and ennemies kept rising, the Paladin remembers all the things he threw at the Mage, all the words he used to define them.</p>
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    <p>He throws harshly his sword on the ground of the training field, ignoring Bolvar’s calls, and begins wandering through Stormwind’s streets. ‘Keep calm’, he could already hear Varian’s lessons, ‘be the example’, ‘be better’. As if he could sensibly keep his cool when a guard, in his back, questioned his loyalty. As if he could be an example when Lady Prestor wondered about the soundness of letting young Prince Anduin meeting with someone of ‘such a blood’. Ah is he could be better, when no one ever let him forget he is but a permanent guest of the King. On the docks, sitting on the walls looking at the workers come and go, the boy of barely twenty curbs an enraged scream. He is angry.</p><p>He throws a rock in the artificial lake of Aldor Rise, the city a quiet break in a continued march. Soon, they will advanced on the Black Temple, soon it will be back in the expectations of others, his endless attempts to prove he is not his brother. To prove it to Lady Prestor and his tutor, so they would let his see Anduin, to prove it to Bolvar and Tirion so they let him be officially a Paladin, to prove it to the Sin’Dorei who spit when he passes, not matter their allegiances. To prove he is better, a better paladin, a better man, than his brother. As if it was possible. The young man sighs. He is tired.</p><p>He throws a spear at the Argent Champion in front of him, in the arena, his ally in his back having since long abandoned hers. Tirion above them watches them carefully, looking for the best for the assault on Icecrown. He can feel the suspicion of the two Orcs, the inquisitive stare of Varian, the worry of Jaina. The Horde doesn’t trust him, many asking for his imprisonment at the least; judging him on his name. His tutor measures him continuously, expecting him to win back his kingdom as Varian once did, expecting him to be perfect no matter what he does. Jaina worries for his health – he wouldn't have eaten had his ally not force him – and for his mental state – he can’t think, not since the first attacks, not since Bolvar, not since the Cathedral – and he refuses her concerns. He is going to defeat the Lich King, he is going to win back the family’s honor, he is… The paladin takes back his spear. He is ill.</p><p>He throws a dagger at the Twilight acolyte, before baring Burn and running to free the dragon, his friend icing the chains so he can break them. The Dragon Queen failed to kill Deathwing, Azeroth is suffering from seemingly endless catastrophes, Ragnaros is burning the sacred groves, the people – his people? - is burning with them, and the Horde and the Alliance are once again at war. As usual on their magnificent world, everything is turning for the worst, and everyone expects him to solve everything. Kill Deathwing, demand the Aspects, save the World Tree, call the druids, destroy the Horde, orders Varian. The Paladin throw an other dagger in the wing of a drake, and concentrates on his fight. He is jaded.</p><p>He throws an eye behind him, towards the Elf at his back. They were supposed to be mere witnesses in this trial, and seeing how he is on the defensive, how she places herself to guard his back, they almost believe they are on trial. Tyrande attacks his friend, her loyalty to the Horde – Garrosh isn’t the Horde, she hisses back – and her actions in Pandaria. Baine puts him on the hot seat, challenges his hate of the Orc – he destroyed Theramore, he committed genocides, he tells them off – and his actions in Pandaria. In front of so many chiefs and heroes and people who judge them while they weren’t there, while they never faced the horrors the both of them vinquished, he throws an eye toward his only ally. He is furious.</p><p>He throws away Jaina’s hands, and walks away from the Alliance’s soldiers to the center of the battlefield, to Khadgar, his magical amulet, and his Mage. The Kirin Tor’s leader wants him to burn bridges with the Horde, him to accept that they are not trustworthy, him to move on as she once did. She refused to hear anything favorable to the Horde, and while he will always be loyal to the Alliance, he can’t look at the other faction as a new Scourge. Not while his Mage is one of them. No while her laugh heals all his soul’s wounds, not while she understands him better than anyone – not even Anduin, not even Varian, and certainly not Jaine. Not while she throws him a smile and he is gasping for breath. The young commander smiles too and Garona will call him silly in a few hours. He is in love.</p><p>He throws a ring to his companion, The Pantheon around them rustling with power while Argus screams his hate. They are going to attack, fight and try to kill a mad Titan. They barely managed to win against Aggarmar, and he was not at the height of his power. Argus is more powerful, less sound of mind. The Pantheon will take care of Sargeras, once the two of them took care of Argus, but after so many battles side by side, so many defeated foes, after earning so many titles and saving Azeroth times and times again, he can’t healp but think it will their last battle, their worst fight. And before dying – before living – he wanted to be sure. They promised, once, just him and her, and a farm, and their uselessness when trying to grow any crops. He wants this promise to be material, so he throws her the ring he is carrying since Magni woke up and gave it to him. She catches it, stares, wants to scream at him – it’s absolutely not the moment for that – but Argus attacks. She puts on the ring before baring Felo’Melorn. He takes Ashbringer, ready to defend Azeroth and his fiancee. He is determined.</p><p>He throws the javelin of Azshara on the magical shield, the javelin the Elf – his fiancee? His enemy? - gave him because he is better at throwing than her. The shield breaks, and he looks as the two groups attack together the last guardian, for the possession of the Tidestone. In the middle, his sister-in-law that never was, the leader of Suramar, and her. Three Mages whose magics combined make Nazjatar bristle. Behind them, the palace of the Nagas Queen, waiting for them with malicious patience. He knows he will have to go in there, then he will have to fight the Banshee, then… another battle, in a world that refused outright to stay in peace. Once more with his fiancee, once more against his enemy, because never are they allow to be just together, two idiots in love. As a child, he dreamt of fighting alongside his brother. As a teenager, he dreamt of fighting against his brother. As an adult, he dreams of letting Ashbringer go, and never take it back. He is exhausted.</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Hope</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>On the walls of the arena, two wounded souls look at a new dawn.</p>
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    <p>“I offer you my condolences.”<br/>Her calm voice made him jump. Sat on the edge of the wall, feet dangled in the thin air of the fortress, he didn’t expect anyone to find him.<br/>Of course, she wasn’t anyone.<br/>Saëriel sat down beside him, wrapped in her cloak. He looked again at the dark sky.<br/>“… Your condolences?”<br/>His hoarse voice was barely audible. His noise and cheeks burnt, the cold sharp on his wet skin.<br/>“For your mentor.”<br/>She marked a pause, ill-at-ease.<br/>“And for your brother too.”<br/>He shrugged.<br/>“It was a monster, my brother died long time ago. The Lich King is dead, it only brings satisfaction.”<br/>His answer was flat, robotic. He was so used to say the same thing to everyone.<br/>“… You still have to right to be sad. I… really can’t judge on being sad for monsters.”<br/>She hated bringing up that topic, even so vaguely, and she choked on the words.<br/>Yet, who else could she talked about it with?<br/>Yet, who else could he cry with?</p><p>He had no idea how long they stayed here, silently, his tears frozen in the icy wind of Northrend, her breath barely visible beneath the cloak she was hidden in. On the high walls of the Argent Crusade, he cried his brother’s death, his fall and the fall of their kingdom. On the high walls of the Argent Crusade, she took his hand in hers and stayed with him, silent support, a wounded soul refusing to abandon an other.<br/>Slowly, his sobs came to a stop. His brother was dead. Finally, both their nightmare ended: he didn’t had to wonder anymore, if Arthas was still here, locked inside the monster, didn’t had to wonder what kind of horrors he was going to unleash next. And Arthas was free now, free from the Lich King and from Frostmourne. Both could move on, in life and in death.<br/>His brother’s shadow would always be there of course: he had no illusions. Everyone would always remember he was the third-born of the Menethil siblings, less talented than his brother, less diplomat than his sister, always the little brother of the Lich King. Himself would never forget his siblings, and their ghosts would always be there to help him, and to remind him of their tragedy.</p><p>But, as the festivities in honor of the fall of the Lich King didn’t seemed to stop, he could finally stop crying. In front of them, the dawn was beginning. He still kept his hand the young woman’s at his side.<br/>“I sorry as well.”<br/>She looked at him, inquisitive, but he saw the brief dark eye leveled to the party-goers down.<br/>“For your people.” He clarified.<br/>She turned toward the horizon, and sighed.<br/>“You don’t have to apologize. You were never at fault.<br/>– You didn’t sing the same song, one year ago.<br/>– I was wrong.” The admission was whispered in the night. “I apologize for the burden I placed on you. You certainly didn’t need it as well.”<br/>His smile was bitter.<br/>“No. But you were far from the only one to accuse me of my brother’s crimes. And you apologized, it’s more than anyone else.”<br/>He felt then her rumble. She was bearing her teeth at the dancing people below.<br/>“What?” he questioned, dumbstruck. “The Lich King is dead, the Scourge is defeated, they can rejoice! Yet you look like you wished for them to have fallen against the undead!<br/>– Fordragon is...” Her voice died them, expression laced with regrets. “… dead, and many with him. I don’t see a reason to celebrate.”<br/>The regret disappeared in front of anger.<br/>“And in their will to appear like the good ones, they don’t even allow one of their champions to mourn in peace!<br/>– No more than you could.”<br/>She shook her head.<br/>“Quel’Thalas mourned, after the battle of the Sunwell. And, well, my father was a traitor. He knew exactly what he was doing when he sold us out to the Legion. Arthas is really the first victim of Frostmourne. The first victim in the war against the Scourge.”<br/>The fact that Saëriel Sunstrider, princess of the destroyed Sin’Dorei, was the one to classify his brother as a victim, meant everything to him. He smiled to the golden sunrays on the horizon.<br/>“… Thank you.”<br/>Their hands pressed each other.</p><p>He took a deep breath.<br/>“My brother is dead.”<br/>His heart clenched when his words touched the air. But it wasn’t the mind-numbing pain of the last hours, nor the gnawing despair of these last years, nor the destructive anger of the first hours. It was calmer, more diffuse. A sadness, a wound, beginning to scar.<br/>“Bolvar is lost.”<br/>Again, the sadness. But he had already mourned this mentor, and he had already killed to ones responsible. He had already moved on. He missed the big paladin, and he knew he was going to have to help Anduin in his own mourning, but this wound was healing already.<br/>“But the others are still here. Tirion and the Argent Crusade want to keep protecting Azeroth, Anduin is safe in Stormwind, and Varian is fully back. And that’s not counting all the souls we fred from the Mourneblade!”<br/>She kept silent, head tilted, looking at him like a wild car. The points of her ears were bright red, as wall as her nose: she hated the cold with burning passion, an ironic fact for a Frost Mage, so her presence was even more precious to him, and he smiled at her. They had come a long way, since their first encounter in Outland.<br/>“And Jaina wants to convince everyone to leave the dead of the Wrathgate in peace, so maybe the war against the Horde will stop as well! A true peace on our world, can you imagine?”<br/>She didn’t manage to suppress a smile and sniffed, not convinced.<br/>“Where are you going with that, useless paladin?”<br/>“There, idiot mage,” he jokingly poked her, and she laughed, “for the first time since one of my father’s guard sneaked me out of my own capital…”<br/>He stopped pushing the Elf, but didn’t let go of her hands, eyes glued on the rising sun. She let him, looking at the same thing.<br/>“For the first time in a long time, I wonder if, perhaps...”<br/>He breathed in. His breath, once out, became visible in the cold of the frozen lands.<br/>“Maybe there is, for us, the child-soldiers of Azeroth...”<br/>Breathed in. Breathed out.<br/>“Hope.”</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Disgusting</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Everyone has phobias and disgusts, even heroes.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He heard her before he saw her, not an exploit considering the noise she made. He approached quietly, but could have not bothered: he could have danced around naked, she wouldn’t have paid him any attention. She was fighting – or rather, she over killed demons in Coilskar Point, some little green monsters which looked like spiders. Sword in hand, she turned around frantically, often attacking bodies rather than living enemies, and she was bouncing up and down. It seemed to him she tried to not touch the ground, and she had the most disgusted expression on her face. He rolled his eyes and didn’t bother to intervene. If it amused her, she could loose her time: he had a Traitor to kill. This last stunt only proved furthermore that little girls shouldn’t be on the battlefield.</p><p>They ran into each other honestly by accident, in the Taunka’s village: he had to kill some members of the Cult of the Damned, she wanted to save the villagers imprisoned, and with both pragmatism and force of habit, they ignored the last tensions between Horde and Alliance to join forces. They were stronger together – well, they would have been if she didn’t try that hard to dodge the Nerubians, leaving him open to their attacks.<br/>“What the fuck are you doing!” he growled, while another evasion of the Elf forced him to turn quickly, in order to not end up impaled on a leg.<br/>“You are better equipped to deal with the mons – the arachnids, paladin!”<br/>They were fighting, but it didn’t explain the shrill in the Elf’s voice, nor her disgusted expression. He didn’t have time to wonder however, and only enraged mentally against useless mages.</p><p>“Berk, berk, berk! Of all the places, of all the things we could fight!<br/>– Will you cease your whining?” Threw back the Mage, busy stopping the blood cells on their right.<br/>He was taking care of those on the left, and sent a dirty look to his comrade between two attacks.<br/>“You are icing them from afar!” he argued. “I have to blow them up on my blade, and it’s absolutely disgusting! We are swimming in the gastric juices of a monster, by the Light!”<br/>She erected an ice wall between cells and a druid in a lazy movement, and shrugged, indifferent.<br/>“We fought worse, honestly.<br/>– One of these days, you will have to tell what you hate so much about the Nerubians. They fought against the Scourge and the Faceless Ones, they are pretty chill.”<br/>He dodged yet another spit of… something slimy and horrible and his armor was covered in it and he was going to throw up…<br/>“Too many eyes and to many legs.”<br/>He stopped. Turned towards the grumbling Mage. Looked around them, destroyed a slimy cell, and raised his sticky sword to her in disbelief.<br/>“Too many legs?”</p><p>They were burning webs and cocoons, at the bottom of the Pandashans’ high wall, and despite the flamethrower's noises, he could hear her complain. She was mere meters away, and kept burning a breeder already reduced to coal.<br/>“And here I thought you listened to the Ironpaw’s cooking lessons!” He joked. “It’s burnt, inedible!”<br/>She looked daggers at him, and screeched when a leg fell off the carcass’ creature, jumping backwards. He laughed, and she got closer grumbling.<br/>“Why?” She questioned, desperate expression and teary eyes and wobbly lips. “Why, everywhere we go, we find those monsters?”<br/>“Divine punishment?”<br/>He snickered while dodging a hit on his shoulder. She wasn’t strong enough to actually hurt him, but he didn’t want her to injure her hand on his pauldron – shutting up the little voice which whispered that they were at war, that he should let her injure her main hand, that he shouldn't find her adorable when she was angry – when they still had to burn a lot of those bugs, for the security of the walls.<br/>“You still didn’t tell me why you hate so much spiders, to the extent that you refuse to fight against Nerubians.” he added casually.<br/>“I did though, didn’t I? Too many eyes and too many legs.<br/>– And it still doesn’t make sense!” he argued. “You kill on a regularly basis demons, undead and beats of any kind, yet you quake because it has too many legs?<br/>– I never pretended to make sens!” she retorted, hidden behind him while he burned another angry breeder. “You don’t like fighting against the Old Gods to my knowledge!<br/>– Because fighting inside theirs organs is absolutely disgusting! It’s slimy and sticky! It’s logical to find something slimy and sticky, like mucus on your armor, disgusting!<br/>– Well, I find monsters with hairy legs and bulging eyes disgusting.” She concluded, smashing eggs repetitively.</p><p>They stared at what remained of Teron’gor. Gorefiend, now, stared at them. Deformed and monstrous, the former warlock barely emerged from the puddle of fel power, his belly now a gigantic mouth, and the two commanders had the same disgusted expression.<br/>“So?” inquired the paladin. “You’d rather fight that or a spider?<br/>– Frankly, neither.” Answered the mage, greenish.<br/>Because of the Fel, or because she struggled to not throw up in front of the aberration, he couldn’t say.<br/>“You? That, or something slimy?<br/>– I think it’s going to depend on what will happen once we kill it. If it explodes, or something like that.”<br/>Gorefiend growled.<br/>“As if you had even the slightest chance, runts!” His screams forced the mage to cover her ears, and the paladin winced. “I will kill you in the name of the Master!”<br/>The two companions shrugged before charging. It wasn’t the first to promise them death, and probably wouldn’t be the last.<br/>However Alec did sigh in relief when they killed it minutes later: it hadn’t explode and cover them with yet another sticky residue.</p><p>“I hate demons, I hate traitors, I hate those fucking bugs!”<br/>Alec shook his head, used to the bouts of anger of his partner every time they faced spiders. Deep inside the Vault of the Wardens, he was glad Saëriel complained, breaking the oppressive silence surrounding them. He didn’t know if the cold sweat he felt came from Cordana, hidden in the shadows, or the residue of rage and madness the walls of the former prison – tomb, really – of the Demon Hunter oozed. One or the other, her moaning broke nicely the morbid atmosphere.<br/>He rose higher the little sphere of Elune’s magic, while his Mage cut and burnt the webs forbidding them to move on. He could see her shivers, and felt sorry that once more she had to face her phobia. He put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder and took the lead, leaving her behind to grumble. He could understand her: the webs they were entangled in were sticky enough to grip his armor and seep in the gaps and stuck to his legs and…<br/>He couldn’t wait for them to be done with demons, traitors, and fucking slimy stuff.</p><p>He was sneaking in the thick jungles of Nazmir, Flynn beside him, dodging silently the groups of Blood Trolls and the haunted ruins. The duo moved on quietly and quickly, until close screams forced to dive down. They waited a bit (were they spotted?), but the cries were enraged curses, and used to them, he recognized fairly easily the sounds of volatile spells mixed with blades.<br/>“Do we step in?” whispered Flynn.<br/>“Fucking disgusting bug, fuck off!”<br/>The litany was barely audible, between screams and spells, but Alec didn’t need more, insults as familiars as the one he used (seriously though, did the Troll had to idolize an Old God with sticky appendix and slimy secretions?).<br/>“… No.” he finally decided.<br/>Without adding anything else, he began to move around the source of the screams. His companion didn’t protest and followed, but didn’t stay silent for long.<br/>“A fight with Blood Trolls you think?’<br/>The Paladin shook his head in negation, focused on a tangled vine, and the Kul-Tiran threw him a funny look.<br/>“I never thought you could be cryptic!” Flynn said, his joviality forced.<br/>Alec looked up in surprise and laughed.<br/>“Sorry. I wasn’t… We wouldn’t have learned anything, nor won anything: Saë… Sunstrider would have fight hard, and we can’t afford that in the middle of enemy territory.”<br/>His laugh was probably too artificial, and his hesitations were probably too noticeable. This war took a heavy toll.<br/>“You managed to recognize his voice in the middle of the capharnaum?”<br/>Well, he could recognize surprise in Flynn’s voice, at the very least. He shrugged.<br/>“She was alone.<br/>– But it sounded like a battle!”<br/>Alec snickered.<br/>“Surely a spider.”<br/>Some things never changed.</p>
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